


Cotton Tail

by havisham



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: 1940s, Alternative Perspective, Break Up, Canon Gay Relationship, Dysfunctional Relationships, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Revenge, Yuletide 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Safe-cracking and tea-making, or, what Bunny did for the duration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cotton Tail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Oshun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshun/gifts).



> My dear Oshun, 
> 
> First of all, thank you for letting me have the opportunity to write this. Just as soon as I finished reading _The Charioteer_ , I really wanted to do something about the character of Bunny. What we learned about what happened to him seemed so terribly bleak, and I wanted to deal with that, in my own way. 
> 
> As per your request, I hope I gave this story enough humor and Bunny some humanity, though I hope I didn't erase any of his worst tendencies. Even with all that, this is, possibly, quite revisionist. Oh well! I’ll just have to live with that.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Much thanks to my beta and my Brit-picker, Elleth and Sharpiefan. You guys are awesome. ♥
> 
>  **Readers:** Please note that the following contains some triggering material that is in line with the original canon. Please read at your own discretion.

**I. Bunny Pounces**

He had come in hope that evening, for something new, something fresh, but that hope had soured quickly. Gossip, the war, bitching about rations, bitching about nothing, about everything. If he heard another word, his eyes would roll to the back of his head and stay there. These parties had long since hit a repetitive groove, always the same, nothing new.

Feeling waspish and off-kilter, he drove off anyone who approached him. That wasn’t like him at all. Bunny sighed and rested his hands on his chin and watched the spectacle unfold before him. His hands were cream-white against the blue of his sleeve; he had taken his hat off so his dark hair spilled into his eyes. 

He was so bored that he could weep. 

To be honest, Bunny hadn’t even caught the host’s name, but he was awful, rather, and always sweating faintly, and awfully _grasping_ for someone like Bunny. The way he kept touching Bunny’s shoulder and looking at him in that meaningful way, it was _too_ revolting. And anyway, it was a meaning that Bunny refused to catch, and so he smiled in a particularly stupid and charming way, and waited for him to move on to his other guests.

It was all _so_ tiresome, but what could one do? It was any port in storm, after all. 

And soon enough, he was pulled into the ebb and flow of the conversation. Gossip was running thick about a certain new addition to their set, a friend’s of Alec’s who had been given command of a ship at the tender age of twenty-three, and a scant few years later had had his fingers blown off— 

Bunny widened his eyes in fascination. “Really, blown off? How many?” 

His companion said, “Two or three, I’ve heard.” 

“How frightful!” he said in a bright, cheerful voice that was sure to carry. “He must be a worse sight than Sandy over there. I say, I don’t think very much of Alec’s taste in men _at all_.” 

His companion coughed suddenly and said that he must see to something in them, and Bunny shrugged, and said lightly, “If you’d like, but — ” A thought suddenly occurred to him, “Alec and Sandy. It’s odd that they should be both named Alexander, isn’t it?” 

“Well, Hephaestion isn’t quite as popular as it used to be,” said a cool voice from behind him, and Bunny’s companion melted into the crowd with a flurry of excuses. Alec drew along the table and put down his drink. He looked Bunny up and down, then he seemed to dismiss him from his mind, just like that. 

Bunny felt a flush growing on his cheeks, but he was not one to be embarrassed at being caught out like that. He touched Alec’s hand lightly and said, “When is your friend going to make an appearance? My interest is quite piqued.” 

One of Alec’s eyebrow rose, and he asked before he could stop himself: “Do you ever stop and listen to yourself?” 

“Hardly ever, darling,” said Bunny smoothly, leaning closer to Alec. “Anyway, I _know_ you can do better than Sandy. After all, we had fun, didn’t we?”

Alec’s mouth twitched downward. He looked down and murmured, “One of these days, Bunny, you really will catch it.” 

Bunny smiled and shook his head, impossible. He then turned his attention to the hubbub at the door. Alec moved forward towards the source of interest, cutting through the crowd like a scalpel through unresisting flesh. Whoever Alec’s friend was, he certainly made an impression. 

Bunny continued to nurse his own drink as he watched others make a go at the new arrival. He was never part of the first wave, but waited patiently for people to come to him, as they inevitably did.

He was conscious, as he always was, that he was easily the best-looking man in the room. (Though it helped that the room was filled to the brim with bland-looking nobodies and people like Alec, who was clever, true, but missed good looks by a mile or more.) 

It helped that Bunny looked younger than he was — which was twenty-four — and had a fine-boned face and clear skin that always telegraphed everything that occurred to him. His hair was naturally a deep brown, and wavy. His nose, which was a source of some pride for him, was perfectly straight and well-shaped. 

His eyes were light-colored, and set off his dark hair admirably. 

Oh, there was a trick to it, of being conspicuously good-looking, an awareness that went beyond just a pleasing set of features. That wasn’t ever enough, as Bunny knew perfectly well. You had to use it, had to give yourself up to the image other people had of you. And he did exactly that. 

He had to, he often told himself. There wasn’t much more to him other than his looks. 

(As everyone said.) 

Bunny drew himself up, to watch the crowd part to let through the newest member of their set, who strode past him, a grim look on his face and his back very straight. Well, Bunny’s expectations, which had been flying very high indeed, crashed all at once, as he recognized who it was. 

_Lanyon._ Lanyon had been a late addition to the course Bunny had been teaching at the station. He was quiet and studious, and unremarkable. The glove on his left hand had not been so noticeable then; there were many others with more drastic injuries. Lanyon hadn’t struck Bunny as a potential _anything_ , really, not that Bunny would have gone for him if he had. Bunny had learned early on that mixing business with pleasure was hazardous to both. Then again, the course had finished more than a week ago, _and_...

Bunny waited for a moment, deciding what to do. Alec was already with him, however, and they were immersed in a quiet but emphatic conversation. 

Lanyon said in a low voice, “I knew it was a mistake to come here.” 

Alec said, “But you must come out, it’s no good otherwise.” Then Alec cocked his head, slightly. Someone was calling for him, and he left Ralph with a squeeze of his shoulder and a resigned sigh. 

Bunny quickly stepped into Alec’s place. “Lanyon,” he said, “how are you?” 

For his part, Lanyon seemed completely unsurprised to see him there. He inclined his head a little. “Eustace, hello.” 

“Oh, do call me Bunny, everyone else does.” 

Ralph considered this. “I don’t even know your first name.” He let Bunny draw him aside and bringing him a drink, which he put away rapidly. Bunny watched him closely, but smiled when Lanyon looked back at him. 

“Well, I don’t expect it’s very flattering for me, but I would hate it more if they called me by my Christian name. It is so dull. But enough about me. How about you? Would you like another?” He gestured to Lanyon’s now empty glass. 

Lanyon considered for a moment and made a decision. “All right.” 

Later, Lanyon — or rather, Ralph, as he became over the course of the evening — said, his eyes a little unfocused, “You haven’t got a Raffles, have you Bunny?” They were leaning close, their foreheads almost touching. 

“No,” Bunny breathed, “I really haven’t, I haven’t cracked anything safe in ages.” 

Ralph groaned at that, and pushed his fair hair away from flushed red face. Bunny, who was still somewhat sober, stood up, swaying slightly. “Your flat is closer than where I’m staying, let’s go.” 

Ralph, getting up, said decisively, “I can drive.” Then his face fell. “But I didn’t drive here.” 

“No, let’s walk, it’ll sober us up a bit.” 

“Alec...” Ralph looked around, but Alec was nowhere to be seen. Bunny sighed, and helped Ralph up. 

“Nevermind about him,” he murmured into Ralph’s ear, guiding him to the door. “You’re in safe hands.” 

It was cool outside, and quiet only as the early mornings could be. Which wasn’t very, since they were in town. But still, the sounds of the party dropped away rapidly as they walked down the darkened street. The crescent moon gave the streets some fitful light, but Ralph navigated them rightly and soon they crept up the stairs, trying not to wake his landlady. One of the boards creaked very loudly and they froze. 

Bunny had to muffle his laughter, but Ralph’s mouth hovered close to his ears. “Enough of that.” 

And he subsided. 

Soon enough, they were at Ralph’s door. He didn’t fumble with his keys, and let them in at once, swinging open the door. “My humble abode,” he said rather grandly, flicking on the lights. 

It was a rather large room, very sparsely furnished, and Ralph’s bedroom was down the hall. There, a narrow bed took up the left side, near the window. There was a desk and chair, and tomorrow’s clothes were already laid out on a hanger by the wardrobe door. 

(It seemed quite unlived in.)

“Very neat,” Bunny said, pushing Ralph gently towards the bed. Ralph turned to him and looked — well, bemused and lustful in turns — and Bunny kissed him, grasped his face tight and licked the inside of his mouth. Ralph made a choked-off noise, as if hurt, and collapsed onto the bed, taking Bunny with him. They did not tear the clothes off of each other — they were still in uniform — but most of it seemed to disappear rather quickly after a certain point. 

Not wishing to waste another moment, Bunny pounced. 

Oh, first times, he loved those. 

Ralph’s neck was warm against Bunny’s mouth, and his hands swift and sure. Bunny felt the brush of leather against his skin, and he wanted nothing more than yank the glove off, to see the true state of things. But now was not the time, and he advised himself to take it slowly, to let Ralph pull him down and take. They exchanged a few broken words, take, hold, please. 

It was enough.

Even after it was over, he felt it, a frisson of pressure, a flare of possession that startled him. “Yes,” Bunny said, his voice loud in the quiet of the room. “Yes, I’ll hold on to you as long as I can.” 

Ralph looked at him, measuring. 

“If you can,” he said at last, and kissed him. 

****

* * *

Ralph’s attention, when he got it, was a little terrifying. It was more than a little terrifying, Bunny had to admit, as the pit of his stomach dipped down to his toes. He recovered himself fairly well, he did, springing away and flattening his hair in a gesture that he would not admit was nervous.

Ralph had let him go with a sigh, and trained his sharp eyes to the ceiling. He had sobered up quickly, too quickly for Bunny, who felt still quite off-center. Bunny rolled away, and wished rather desperately for a cigarette. He felt Ralph’s cool hand — his whole one — pressed against the small of his back. 

Ralph’s voice was when he said, “What _is_ your name? It seems wrong, not knowing.” 

“Ha. Now that you’ve known me, biblically?” It seemed almost too much, to stretch a hand down, to flail around for his trousers, to retrieve the pack of cigarettes tucked in one of its pockets. To do so would mean to have Ralph stop touching him, and he found that he wasn’t quite willing to do that, yet. 

There was a sound of a drawer opening, and Ralph said, “Here,” and held out a cigarette. Bunny accepted it and leaned in, waiting for Ralph to light it. He did so with a quick snap. Bunny noticed that Ralph’s glove was still on. That, at least, went uncommented upon. 

“Thanks awfully,” Bunny murmured, “ _Be prepared._ Taken that to heart, haven’t you?” And he blew out smoke gently from his lips and into the soft darkness the room. It twisted and curled, showing white and dissipating.

After a while, he said lazily, “My name is Peter, if you feel that you _should_ know.” 

Ralph made a soft noise that could have been a laugh. “It doesn’t suit you.” 

“No,” Bunny agreed, moving toward him again. “It never did.” 

 

****

* * *

Bunny whistled while he worked, dipping his hands into the suds in the sink and swishing around the soapy water in the cup. He heard a groan from behind him, and hid a smile before turning to greet Ralph. “I hope you don’t mind, I wanted a cup of tea before I went, and I got carried away.”

He gestured to the small array of plates and dishes on the counter, slowly drying in the morning sunlight. Ralph looked not much worse for wear from last night’s festivities — he was immaculate, really, dressed, starched and ironed. And all on a Sunday too. Only the smudges under his eyes, the lines around his mouth, showed that he was frayed around the edges. 

He said, mildly, “That’s my shirt you’re wearing.” 

Ralph’s shirt was in appalling shape, crumpled, twisted and stained. Bunny looked down in surprise and then to Ralph again. He said innocently, “I thought I would wash up before, but there was someone on the stairs... I could take it off, if you’d like?” 

“No, keep it,” Ralph said. “And I don’t drink tea.” 

“Well,” Bunny said, “that would explain the unaccountable lack of tea in your cupboards.” 

The silence stretched out uncomfortably long, as Ralph set about to get his own breakfast. Bunny stood aside to watch him. 

Eventually, Bunny, stretching out, said casually, “The thing is, as I was telling you last night— ”

“Last night?” Ralph’s back went stiff. Suspicion stole into his voice and sharpened, a jangle of broken glass. Bunny felt himself at a disadvantage, again and said hastily, “I can explain...” 

As it turned out, Bunny did not exactly have a place to stay — “It’s a bit of an emergency, and the awkward thing is that I’ve spent a lot of money making the other place very nice, only to have it — well, snatched from under me.” He looked at Ralph, pleadingly. “You won’t notice a thing, I promise. I can be unobtrusive.”

Ralph didn’t believe that for a moment, and said so. 

But all the same, he agreed to let Bunny stay on. That was at noon. 

By two o’clock in the afternoon, Bunny’s things began to trickle in, and by Monday that trickle had become a steady stream. Ralph retreated up to the attic, not to be seen again except when he headed off to the station and came back. The landlady, a greying gentlewoman by the name of Mrs. Tremble, treated these new developments with complete bewilderment, but could not exactly argue with another source of rent. 

Bunny believed in redecorating with extreme prejudice, and the improvements took more than a week to be finished. And when it was, Bunny knocked on Ralph’s door, and brought him down. And now it was he who opened the door to the flat with a flourish. “Ta-dah! How do you like it?” 

Yes, the room had been the product of Bunny’s own theories of interior design. It was a bewildering melange of glitter and mirrors, of chairs, upholstered in pink velvet and with gilded arms, designed to swallow the sitter up whole, just like Jonah and the whale. The walls were papered with a pattern of fuchsia flowers on a cobalt background. Here and there, there were splashes of color and glints of chrome. The carpeting was plush and colored wine-red, shoes were meant to sink into it. The scent of floral perfume, cloyingly sweet, hung in the still air. 

From the look on Ralph’s face, it was clear he didn’t like it at all. 

“Oh dear,” Bunny said, hands on his face, “I _knew_ I should have gone with a naval theme.” 

And Ralph looked at him with the corner of his eyes, his lips pressed tight and his brows knit. Bunny thought, _oh, I am going to see that look a lot, aren’t I?_

“Don’t be so hasty to dismiss it all, darling,” he said quickly, taking a few steps to the pièce de résistance of the entire room, the cocktail cabinet that he had personally rescued from the wreckage of a bombed-out furniture store. He ran a reverent hand across the shining walnut veneer, and opened it up, revealing a mirrored shelf that held decanters of gin and whiskey, as well as small bottles of bitters. Next to it was a jug of ice water. The glass shelves below were stocked with bottles of rum. 

Bunny said, with considerable relish, “Now, what will _you_ have?” 

****

* * *

There was a party soon after. There were lots of parties, of blur of faces of people both old and new to their set, come to compliment Bunny on his taste, and eye Ralph and his ever-present glass. Even Alec came, looking faintly exhausted.

“I need a drink,” he said, after taking it all in. Soon after, Alec disappeared from view (as did Ralph), until the end of the evening, when he appeared again. “I love what you’ve done with the place, Bunny,” he said as he was leaving, not meaning a word of it. 

“So glad,” Bunny said, equally sincere. 

Later, the party ended and the last of the guests trickled away, saying, “Goodbye, Bunny, dearest, darling, so good to invite us,” trading kisses and last-minute jokes and digs, and the candles had burned away and what was left of the food was wrapped up and put away, and cups and saucers, and the rest of debris were left for the morning after. Bunny found himself quite alone. Quite alone, and not-drunk, certainly not, did he not make a straight line for the door, did he not make his way up the stairs to the attic, not stumbling, not even once?

He didn’t knock on the door, but let himself in, chuckling a little as he did so. “And here’s your crow’s nest.” Ralph’s small room, above the rabble and all, was a brave little outpost of grey over the bulk of the house. Its round window like a porthole, looking out to early morning world outside, banked in fog. You could imagine being at sea, on a morning like this.

Bunny himself had never been at sea, except for once on a school-trip to the Isle of Wight. He had been frightfully seasick, had vomited down the new clothes his mother had bought him. It was funny that he should be in the Navy now.

(Though he wasn’t really, others would hasten to say.)

“Go back to bed,” said Ralph sleepily, from a tangle blankets on his bed. But then he sat up, alert. “Wait. Did something happen?”

Bunny stood in the middle of the room and pushed his hand across his hair. He was still wearing bits and piece of his uniform, his shirt was unbuttoned. He wiped his mouth, and came away red-handed. He felt drained. “The end of parties are always so grotesque, aren’t they? Especially when you’re the host and can’t leave. Though — ”

He took a look around the room, eyeing the two empty glasses left on the table. “You didn’t have that problem.”

Ralph said nothing, though he pushed away his blanket, and patted an empty space next to him. Bunny crawled over to him, and collapsed next to him with a sigh. They were quiet for a while.

“I wonder,” Bunny said, “if I’d gone to your school, would you have caned _me?_ ”

“Oh, Boo. You do know exactly how to ruin a moment,” said Ralph shifting away. He was shaking a little, as if he was laughing.

Bunny pressed on ahead, “ _I_ wouldn’t know, my dear. My mother couldn’t afford to send me to a fancy school like yours, though she would have liked to.”

A pause. “Is she still alive, your mother?”

Bunny gave a little gasp of surprise. “What’s this? A _personal_ question, Lanyon?”

He struggled to take off his jacket, and finally did get it off, and tossed it to the floor. He shimmied out of his trousers much more easily. At Ralph’s frown, he folded them both carefully, before setting them back on the floor. The air nipped at his bare skin, which prickled into gooseflesh. When he was back next to Ralph, he said with a sigh, “Goodness no. She died when I was still in school. Cancer. I wasn’t told how bad it was until it was too late.”

“I am sorry,” Ralph said, touching his face tentatively, trailing his fingers down Bunny’s face. Bunny caught them when they neared his mouth. Lips and teeth, a gentle bite. Then he pressed his cheek against the bed sheet, appreciating the coolness against his hot skin.

Earnestly, Bunny said, “I _would_ have liked it, if you’d done it to me. I wouldn’t have told a _soul_ — ”

Ralph clasped a hand over his mouth. “Stop, Boo.”

But then he moved his hand away when Bunny licked it. After a moment (with anyone else, it would have read as hesitation) Ralph leaned down and kissed him, a cautious kiss, one that belied a long-simmering heat.

There was a breathless pause and then — 

“I could have anyone I’d like,” Bunny said, half to himself. There was a burning feeling in the pit of his stomach, and that quickly kindled into a fire. “If I was some girl, they’d say I want you because I wanted to fuck my father. Kiss me again.” 

“Don’t talk anymore,” Ralph said, his eyes wide and very blue.

Bunny rubbed his hands together. The fire had gone out a long time ago, it was very cold. But there was warmth, right at the spot at the base of Ralph’s throat, that just was wide enough for Bunny’s thumb to fit into. He put it there, and felt the strident thump of Ralph’s heart, the rise and fall of his chest.

But Bunny moved on, and his fingers stole under the waistband of Ralph’s pyjamas. He said, in a breathy whisper, “Good old Ralph! But you really _ought_ to be nicer to me.”

He felt Ralph’s whole body react, his breathing harsh. For a moment he thought Ralph would push him off, leave him to bounce off the floor with a bony clatter. Bruising his hands, his thighs.

Bunny shivered. It was still very cold. 

“Am I unkind to you?” Ralph’s voice was low. Bunny bit his lip, making his hands go faster, bringing Ralph closer to the edge.

“No, I suppose not,” said Bunny. When I have you. The bones of Ralph’s face showed stark in the shadows, and he looked impossibly remote, unreachable, even as Bunny wiped off his hand on Ralph’s pyjamas, to their utter ruin. Then he rolled them further down, past Ralph’s hips.

By this time, Ralph came to himself, and pushed Bunny down. And Bunny went with stifled laugh, and a surge of triumph. It felt, at times, that all he did was _prod_ Ralph, until he acted, until he did what they both longed for.

It didn’t matter who Ralph thought of when he did this, or what ghosts haunted him now. Bunny grit his teeth and pushed back. Nothing else mattered. Not anymore. 

Ralph was _his._

 

**II. The Odell**

Bunny got into Ralph’s journals almost by accident; he had been looking for something else entirely when his hand bumped up against the smooth-grained wood of Ralph’s old sea chest. 

(Or not so old, in fact. Most of Ralph’s things had gone down with his ship. He had bought this afterwards, Bunny supposed, in one of those ramshackle little shops close to the water. For sentimental reasons, no doubt. Ralph was a slave to sentiment, no matter how he denied it.) 

Bunny forgot, at that moment, what he had actually been looking for. A missing button from the cuff of his jacket had rolled under the bed, perhaps. Or a pair of scissors. A tin of shoe polish. 

But this was much more interesting. He ought not look inside, of course. It would be wrong to do so. He bit at his thumb, an old nervous habit that he had thought himself cured of. 

It _would_ be wrong. Certainly. He traced a tentative finger across the top of the chest. 

Would it be wrong? Yes? No? 

… Only if he should be caught? 

He tapped his fingers against the wood. He rattled it, heard the shuffle of books inside. 

He overcome the lock with the two safety pins he had in his pocket; it was a work of a few minutes. And inside, yes, there were books in there. A small stack of notebooks, in fact, filled with Ralph’s neat handwriting. Filled with his stories.

Bunny sat on the floor, and flipped through them. 

It had been a long time since Bunny himself had much interest in Ralph’s stories, though on the face of it, they were exciting stuff. Yes, the thought of them was exciting, all adventure and the high seas, sharks and pirates. But, alas, they were ruined by Ralph’s own thoroughness, by his exact nature. They were too serious-minded to be entertaining, Bunny thought. And possibly, far too long. 

Anyway, an old sailor’s tales weren’t what prompted him to read the journals. 

What Bunny was really interested in was what Ralph had to say about _him._ But here was the unforgivable thing -- Bunny was barely in the journals! He was only a forgettable little initial, appearing here and there, with little dialogue given. Not important, not needed for posterity, or for whatever it was that Ralph wrote for. 

It was as the saying went, eavesdroppers seldom hear anything good of themselves. 

(But surely something unflattering would be better than this terrible indifference?)

Alec now, Alec got _pages_ devoted to him, and those Bunny read in a desultory fashion. None of it was very surprising. If Bunny could have spared some sympathy for Sandy, he’d give it, but he couldn’t, and so and he didn’t. The silly ass! He certainly didn’t help his cause, carrying on like that. 

Then there was something else, something quite serious, something Bunny didn’t like the sound of at all...

Then he heard the front door open, and Mrs. Tremble start to fuss over Ralph. Bunny sprang up, the journal in his hands. He shoved it into the sea chest and pushed _that_ under the bed. And not moment too soon, for Ralph came in just then, carrying a package. “What are you doing here, Boo?” 

Bunny straightened up, and gave him his most boyishly charming smile. “I was waiting for you, of course! Silly boy. Now, I’ve got to run.” He grabbed his hat from Ralph's bed, and gave him a quick kiss, before Ralph could dodge it. “Don’t wait up for me tonight, I’ve got an engagement.” 

He went before Ralph could answer. 

****

* * * 

Bunny went through rest of day thinking about ghosts. Everyone had them. It couldn’t be avoided, in times like this, the ranks of the dead growing day by day, rubbing shoulders with the living, sometimes more present than the latter.

The boy was Ralph’s ghost. Laurie Odell, dead, but not gone. 

All right, all right. It wasn’t just Ralph’s journals that talked of Laurie Odell. _The_ Odell. And it wasn’t as if Bunny was entirely unaware of who he was, or, more accurately, had been. 

Bunny couldn’t be, there were so many people who were so eager to tell him about it (Ralph had told Alec, as expected, and Alec had told Sandy, stripped of the details, of course, and Sandy had told everyone) — but still, the details dug into his skin, made it hard for him to breathe. 

He was walking down the street when sirens tore through the sky. He had parked his car two streets away, and felt momentarily annoyed. Imagine if something should happen to it! He would never get to the party now, he was hopelessly late.

It was growing dark, the streets were rapidly clearing of people, but he had no desire to spend the next hour or two packed tightly into an air-raid shelter, rubbing knees with housewives. Then a voice snapped at him: “Idiot! Are you going to gawp at the sky all day or are you going to come in?”

Bunny looked around wildly, and saw Bim Taylor glaring at him from an open door. For a moment, he was sure that he had bitten it, that Bim was to be his bad-tempered guide to the afterlife. But that was silly, Bim was alive, or close enough to it. Bunny took a few rapid steps to the door and closed it behind him. They were in a pub, deserted for the moment, except for the barman who was polishing the bar diligently, steadily ignoring the tumult outside. Bunny peeked out of the low window, but there was nothing to see out there. 

By then, Bim had settled back into his booth in the back. He was nursing his drink and didn’t look up when Bunny came over to sit beside him. 

They had never been particularly chummy, at the best of times. Too often, they poached on each other’s territory. But now Bunny cast about for something to talk about. “What are you doing here?”

Well, that was as good a question as any. 

Bim waved off the question — “Never mind about that, I was just seeing someone off.” 

“Oh.”

They sat in silence until Bunny got up again, to get drink for him, and another for Bim. “Anything for the conquering hero,” he said abstractly, not catching the look Bim gave him. 

Bim said, “You’re still with Ralph?” 

(Oh, now, that was an interesting question. Was he? That seemed more and more in doubt everyday.) 

“Yes, and we’re _deliriously_ happy together, darling,” said Bunny, not forgetting that Bim himself was rumored to have carried a torch for Ralph at some point. 

“Oh, delirious sounds about right,” was Bim’s dry reply, and Bunny laughed, despite himself. 

“Quite delusional,” Bunny agreed cheerfully.

“Deranged,” offered Bim. 

“Yes, quite. Have you heard about Ralph’s great tragedy?” 

Bim’s eyes, already hazy with drink, sharpened with interest. He bumped Bunny’s shoulder. “ _Do_ tell.” 

Bunny, glad for the audience, sighed loudly, leaning into his folded arms. “What is there to tell? It’s the sort of things you hear about in those kind of schools, _you know_ , too many emotions and not enough sense — ” 

He caught Bim’s incredulous look this time and said huffily, “I know sense when I see it, though I don’t often choose to practise it myself.” 

“No, no, I’m sick of hearing about you, tell me about Ralph.” 

“All right, all right. His name is — was Laurie Odell, _the_ Odell, if you will. He was a few years behind Ralph in school, and a very pretty boy at sixteen, apparently. Though aren’t we all? Untouched, perfect, carefree.” Bunny sighed, remembering himself at sixteen. Glorious. 

Bim snorted. “I wasn’t, I had spots and no growth spurt.” 

“You _are_ still quite short,” Bunny agreed amiably, though he himself was not much taller. He got a sharp elbow in the rib for his troubles. 

“Ah, well. They had — I can’t figure out if they had _anything_ between them at all, but Ralph gave him some book before he left school (in _disgrace_ , I may add), and then, years later — oh it is just _too_ romantic, dearie. Just who should turn up bleeding out on the deck of Ralph’s ship, coming back from Dunkirk, but the very same Laurie Odell? He was out of it, by all reports, but he was still lively enough to give Ralph a nasty turn.” 

“And then?”

“I’m getting to it — ” 

“You have an _appalling_ habit of stretching out stories beyond their breaking point, do you know that?” 

Bunny poked his face against Bim’s, saying, “What do _you_ know about my habits?” 

“I know enough,” said Bim, pulling away with a faint smirk on his lips. 

“Well! Anyway, he was loaded off, and Ralph had his hands full again. He didn’t have a chance to think of him again until _his_ ship got torpedoed and he was picked up again, sans a few fingers and a half— ” 

“Oh come now — ” 

“Shush, I’m not finished,” said Bunny. “Anyway, he wrote to Odell when he was in hospital. But then he got the letter back, stamped ‘Died of wounds.’ That’s all. Cue Ralph’s silent devastation, and his need to drink himself into complete nonexistence. It is _so_ very vexing.” 

Bim tapped on his glass impatiently. “If you dislike Ralph so much, why stay with him?” 

“Who said I disliked him? I _adore_ old Ralph! His moods, his silences, his everything. And also, you know, I do like making people jealous.” And he looked up at Bim and smiled brightly. 

Bim cast his eyes down to the top of the table and brushed the crumbs from it with the back of his hand. He said, “There are times I’m ashamed to know you, Bunny, and this is one of them.” 

Irritably, Bunny said, “It’s a good thing you don’t really know me then, isn’t it? Anyway, save the moralizing for someone who cares. I get enough of that at home.” And then they lapsed into silence for a while, and finished their drinks. 

Bunny sighed. “I’m dying for a smoke. Do you have cigarettes? I’ve left mine somewhere.” Bunny held out his hand, and Bim frowned, but he fished out a pack from his coat. Bunny waited until Bim lit it for him and then leaned back, satisfied. He smoked and watched him from under his lashes. 

Bim fidgeted, his discomfort apparent. 

Bunny blew a thin column of smoke gently into his direction, exposing his throat from under his collar. With a crooked smile, Bunny said, “Ralph may be a cold fish, but he _fucks_ like a shark.”

Bim stifled a cough that could have been a laugh, his face flushed red. 

At that, Bunny put out his cigarette, and got up and stretched. The sirens had stopped long ago, and the pub had begun to fill up with people again. 

“Come with me?” Bunny said, though he expected Bim to say no. 

But after a long moment, Bim said, “Yes, all right.”

Getting up, he tapped on the face of his watch. “I haven’t much time.” 

“It won’t take long,” Bunny promised, warmed a little. 

 

****

* * *

“Darling, I wanted you to be the _first_ to know.”

And Bunny was the first to know about the Odell’s miraculous resurrection at least a dozen more times by the end of the day, until he left the telephone off the hook after a while and crept upstairs. The attic door was locked. 

****

* * *

“Oh, Binky is terribly stupid, my dear, and has gotten the wrong day — ”

Bunny opened the door to Ralph’s room. There he found Laurie Odell, looking alive and well, and sitting on Ralph’s bed. Laurie looked up, expecting to see Ralph. He said, smiling,“I was just looking at your pyjamas.” 

So that was Laurie Odell. Happy, cinnamon-brown hair and hopeful eyes. 

Oh how Bunny hated him! 

He felt tired. This fight wasn’t worth it, that it was over even before it began. Though this last bit of calculation, he kept smiling. He held out his hand to stop Laurie from standing. “No, don’t tell me who you are. I know I’m right. Laurie Odell.” 

And as their conversation progressed, Bunny perched on the edge of the table, making a silent inventory of Laurie’s losses. He swung his own legs as he studied Laurie’s. He had never felt healthier, or more whole than when looked at Laurie. That leg of his, encased as it was in a monstrous boot, certainly didn’t look like it could take very much. 

Bunny wondered why Laurie didn’t go about with a cane. Perhaps he was too proud? 

Laurie was taller than Bunny had expected. He still had the remains of a boy that someone like Ralph would lose his head over, Bunny thought critically. But still, he was _shockingly_ battered looking, though perhaps that had more to do with his coloring than anything else. 

(Hadn’t he even bothered to comb his hair this morning? He was quite wayward and windblown.) 

And then there was the business of the tea. Ralph, making tea? But he hated tea, had done so as long as Bunny knew him. Or didn’t he? Why was he running around, making tea, of all things? For Laurie, it turned out, because Laurie wanted tea. 

Ralph had never made _him_ tea. 

Ralph had undergone a sort of sea-change because of Laurie. It was obvious in his looks, in his remarks, everything. Ralph couldn’t stop looking at him, at Laurie. It was terribly awkward for Bunny to be caught up in all of it, embarrassing, as if he’d caught them making love on Ralph’s bed. 

(Was that what they were going to do?) 

It was almost a relief, almost, to be dismissed out of hand to get the tea. (Except, no, it wasn’t, and he was only starting to get angry about it.) If his hands shook a little (just nerves, and the water was so cold) as he rinsed out the teapot ( _his_ teapot), it was no matter. 

No one cared about _him_. 

Warm up the pot. Concentrate, make tea. 

Now, did he have tea? He shook the tea-tin again, just to hear its contents rattle. Yes, of course he did. He would have hated to ask for it downstairs, he wouldn’t get as warm reception as Ralph had done, no doubt. 

He made the tea, and noticed the empty water jug next to the sink. An idea sprang up, fully formed. Letting the leaves steep in the pot, Bunny started rooting through the cupboards for another bottle of gin. 

When he returned to the parlor, Ralph and Laurie were deep in conversation. They did not look up when Bunny set down the tea-pot, nor when he darted over to the cocktail cabinet and replaced the water-jug. He seated himself on the side opposite of Ralph. He exclaimed, “Well now! Who’s going to be mother and pour it out?” He gave Laurie an confiding grin, pushing the tray towards him. “Miss Odell?” 

Laurie stiffened, but said easily enough, “All right, if you’d like.” 

The whole evening dragged on like that, the conversation between becoming more and more hostile until they were, Bunny imagined, like a pair of the frigates in the print on the wall of the Ralph’s room, exchanging heavy fire. It became more and more difficult to keep on a pleasant face on about it. Ralph was quietly pickling himself, and paid no mind. 

There was a knock at the door, and it was Alec and Sandy, conspicuously bearing grim tidings. He ushered them in and took their coats, “I am _so_ very glad to see you!” he said with absolute sincerity. Sandy blinked, startled by the force of Bunny’s enthusiasm, but Alec took it in stride. 

“Oh?” He arched a dark brow, only one, a neat trick. “I thought you were quite done with me, Bunny?” 

“Oh no! Never! I am sorry to have missed your birthday. I couldn’t think what to get you.” 

“Your best wishes are enough.” 

“You have that,” said Bunny confidentially and Alec laughed. It wasn’t quite a _nice_ laugh (Bunny knew quite well what Alec thought of him, and that was vastly unflattering) but Alec was used to him, and familiarity bred tolerance, at times. And comfort, too. 

Alec and Sandy’s news was about Bim. What a shame, what a terrible waste. How terribly inevitable! 

“Poor old Bim,” Bunny said gently, the same sort of voice he’d used years before, walking softly around his mother’s sick room, where no loud noises had been allowed. “I ran into him only the other day. It seems like hours.” And it did seem like a short time ago, when he was pressed again Bim, the brick wall behind him scraping against the back of his neck, Bim’s nails digging into his flesh. It felt wrong that he should be dead, sunk to the bottom of the channel. Bunny felt his face heat up at the memory, and he got up and practically snatched Ralph’s glass from his hands.

He rubbed at a small smudge on the surface of the cocktail cabinet, worrying over the source of it as he made Ralph’s pink gin. They were still talking about Bim when he came back, and Bunny paid very little attention to the drift of the conversation. When it was his turn to speak again, he spoke without thinking too hard about it, he said the first thing to pop into his mind. 

“It seems like fate, doesn’t it?” He took one last swig of his drink, with a sigh.

“No,” Alec said in his clinical voice, “I wouldn’t say so...” 

 

****

* * *

He hated it, Ralph’s car. The stubborn gear shift, the poky seats, the way it jerked along corners as they speed through the darkened country lanes to the hospital. (Perhaps that was due to _him_. From the corner of his eye he saw Laurie wince in pain.)

Well! It wasn’t _Bunny’s_ fault that — 

Laurie didn’t like him, not even a little. He had caught Bunny doctoring Ralph’s drink (he had to, anyone could see that if Ralph would take it in his head to drive, as sloshed as he already was, it would be a disaster. And really, Bunny ought to _know._ ) 

It was obvious that Laurie wished for nothing more than to be far away from here. What was equally, however, was Laurie’s growing sense of distaste. It showed on his face, in the stiff way he held himself. 

(Laurie was not the sort that did, or perhaps could, hold anything back.) 

In the face of such withering disapproval, really it was like driving someone’s elderly disapproving _aunt_ , truly, what could one do? All patter, all conversation faltered out. Bunny found himself _lapsing_ , letting a niggling thing like his accent drop. He did not miss a ghost of a smile that flitted across Laurie’s face at the sound of it. 

Bunny took the next corner more roughly than he could have. 

His thoughts scattered like marbles on glass. Faster and faster, he drove, and spat out some bitter jokes, meant to sting, to hurt, all about Ralph, since that was the only link they shared, but Laurie was more than equal to them, he batted them away impatiently. Imperiously. 

Oh, Bunny could go _ever_ so fast. 

He glanced over at Laurie, whose face showed dead-white in the dimness of the car (so it hadn’t been so easy after all), and it was still lay open, easy to read. _Common as mud,_ he was probably thinking, and who knew what else. 

Bunny could just tell. He could. 

Bunny slowed the car, drummed his fingers on the wheel. _Common, common._ How _fucking_ dare he. Laurie. What did he know? There was nothing common about Bunny, nothing common _left._ It had been scrubbed out, scoured away. 

Oh, did Ralph think the same? 

Touching the untouchable, hadn’t that been what they were all about? He and Ralph? No, Ralph had never been untouchable for Bunny, never, old Ralph (who was no longer good) was all-too human, stuck on earth with the rest, with its all its dirt and muck. No matter how heavenly white his shirts, no matter how he dreamed of the sea. Bunny had never worshipped Ralph, never made an idol of him! Head Boy indeed! Was that what Laurie saw when he looked at him? Stupid Laurie! Dumb Ralph! 

Idiotic Bunny! what _was_ he holding on to so very hard?

He stopped the car, and turned to Laurie. He put on a smile as sharp as razor-wire, his hands reaching for Laurie’s thigh. He cooed at seeing Laurie pale further, “Oh, you _terrible_ boy...” 

****

* * * 

The house was still there by the time Bunny got back. He had some trouble parking the car, he felt a bump of a upturned paving stone as the car skidded to a stop. Inside, as out, all was dark and silent. He tottered up the stairs, holding onto the banister for dear life.

Ralph was still in his chair, fast asleep. Bunny debated leaving him there for the night, but decided against it. In the struggles to get him out, Bunny wondered, for the first time, if he had been _quite_ right to choose this particular style of chair in his decorating scheme. 

“Wha-?” Ralph woke with a start, muzzily tilting his head onto Bunny’s shoulder. 

“Can’t have you drooling on the velvet,” said Bunny, and together, an unwieldy mass, they jostled the pink mirror coffee table. It was a wreck, glasses and cigarette ashes everywhere, some of which had spilled from the tray and had embedded itself into the carpets. Bunny thought resignedly of the job he’d have the next day, cleaning it all up. 

And honestly, it was just too much to expect him to drag Ralph up those stairs when he was a heavy as a stone, and as limp as anything. So he didn’t. He plopped Ralph into his own bed (that was, once, their bed) and tucked a blanket under Ralph’s chin. 

Speaking strictly to himself, Bunny said, “I suppose we’re finished.” 

Ralph said nothing, as expected. He rolled over with a groan, taking the pillows with him. 

And they _were_ finished, though it took some time for Ralph to properly extricate himself. Very good with tying up loose ends, was old Ralph. On the last day, Bunny took the trip up the stairs to the attic for the very last time. The room already had a grey vacant look to it, bleak almost. All of Ralph’s things had gone, except for the old sea chest, that he was to pick up that afternoon. For old time’s sake, Bunny picked the lock and opened it up. It was a matter of some inevitability that Bunny picked a journal up. It was plain and black, severe. 

He ran a finger over Ralph’s handwriting, decisive and precise. 

He was careful to note certain things, for future reference. 

 

**III. Bunny’s Revenge Song**

Imagine, that the conchie should have such fire in him! 

Bunny had driven to the EMS hospital to relieve his burning curiosity, and had had no thought of having a fight at all — anyway, he hadn’t expected that a Quaker, a pacifist, a conscientious objector should know just how to throw a punch. 

(And that Bunny, after all these years, still hadn’t the sense to duck.) 

With one hand still on the steering wheeling, Bunny felt the cut on his lip with fascination. It stung rather than hurt, a fascinating kind of pain, like a scab that needed to be picked at, a wound that needed to stirred, again, again, to make sure it was real. His hand fell back to the steering wheel, and he tried his best to ignore that sweet sting of pain. 

Distantly, he knew that he was in trouble, lots of it. The boy would — what would he do? Would he say anything? Do anything? Would he write to anyone? Would he be believed? The boy, Raynes, yes, that was his name, as he had been neatly introduced as, Andrew Raynes, whose face fell when he said, his voice faltering, doubtful. “Ralph Lanyon?” 

And Bunny -- oh, he laughed and slid his left hand into his pocket. “Yes, that’s me.” 

And then he’d told him -- what? The truth, of course. He had used the crudest words, ones that even a Quaker apparently knew. He watched Raynes’ pale face turn pink and then mottled red. Bunny had forgotten to duck. 

Andrew Raynes, the Quaker, the conchie with an unexpected will of iron and a wicked right hook, would write to Laurie. And he would be believed. Surely, yes, and then the whole thing would come crashing down on Bunny’s poor, aching head. 

Because, of course, Laurie wouldn’t think for a minute that Ralph would have done what Bunny had, not Ralph, who had honor, and a sense of fair play, and a hard-headed belief that some delusions ought to be nurtured. (Honor, fair play, and _love_ , perhaps, now...) 

Why, Ralph? He would never! 

With regret, Bunny noted that there were several drops of blood on his collar. That would be a pain to get out. 

Now here was the the thing that bothered him most, the thing that set his teeth on edge. Them. Ralph and Laurie. The boy didn’t matter, he was insignificant, an instrument. Bunny could hear them, Ralph and Laurie’s anxious chorus, “Oh, we mustn’t, we mustn’t hurt the boy.” 

Hmph! Innocence preserved too long became a kind of stupidity, surely? And in any case, there was a bloody war on, there were worse things happening than telling one nineteen-year old that yes, he was queer. There were worse things happening to other nineteen-year olds, right at this moment. 

Bunny felt no guilt about any of it. He didn’t. 

He felt nothing, and it was somehow worse. 

 

****

* * *

Toto was fast asleep in one of the low-lying sofas near the door, his feet up in the air. He had knocked over some of the magazines from the coffee table in front of him, and Bunny picked them up with a sigh. He set them down on the table, save one, which he rolled it up and swatted Toto about the head with it.

Impatiently, he said, “Get up, Toto. I won’t need you tonight.” 

Toto blinked sleepily, his waking expression turning from befuddlement to consternation. He said, “But you promised me dinner!” And he shook his head disbelievingly, appalled by the faithlessness of of his fellow man. Toto had a shock of fairish hair that made him look rather young, and a pale, unblemished face that made him look rather unfinished. He was handsome enough, though often petulant. (Like now.) 

Funny.

The boy had looked a little like Ralph, the same sort of hair, the same sort of demeanor. Severe and pale. People were like that, Bunny supposed. Replaceable. 

He switched on the light and went into the kitchen and retrieved a chip of ice from the icebox and applied it to his swollen lip. “I can’t go out tonight,” he said to Toto, who was stretching on the sofa, stifling his yawns. 

“But I haven’t had anything to eat since before rehearsals this afternoon — oh,” he interrupted himself, his eyes going wide. “What happened? You look frightful.” 

“Nothing.” 

“That doesn’t look like nothing.” 

Then understanding dawned on Toto. “Oh, you went to see that boy! He hit you? I thought he was a — what do you call it, a pacifist? Can they _do_ that?” 

Bunny pressed the ice closer against his lower lip and said nothing. 

“What would Ralph say about it?” 

In a low voice, Bunny said, “He thought I _was_ Ralph.” 

“What?” 

“He thought I was Ralph.” 

Toto tapped his fingers against his mouth. “Pardon me, but how?” 

With a small sliver of pride, Bunny said, “I kept my left hand in my pocket, that’s all.” 

Toto nodded appreciatively, and then began to look worried. “He’ll come after you then.” 

He paled. “And me too, if I don’t tell him.” 

“What? Who will?” 

“Ralph, of course.” Toto got up and began to hunt for his things, as they were scattered around the room. His coat lay stuffed into the corners of one of the chairs, his hat was under one of the end-tables. 

“Why, you odious little — ” 

“I _am_ sorry but — ” 

“Go on then, tell. I don’t care. And get out of here, I don’t want to see you again.”

Toto pulled a face. “So dramatic! Bunny, you were a loss to the stage.” 

“Get out.” Bunny had closed the door firmly on Toto’s face when there was frantic knocking at the door. 

“My _shoes_ ,” Toto said, “Bunny, give me my shoes!” 

Toto’s shoes were hidden under the sofa, and when Bunny had pulled them loose, he threw them out the door and shouted, “Take that! And your little dog too!” And he listened for the clatter of Toto stomping down the stairs.

Below, Mrs. Tremble’s voice came crisply up. “What is going on there? If this noise does not cease, I will have to summon the police!”

****

* * *

It was an unbearable week, he tried to stay in as much as he could, but people did notice and make remarks. "Oh," he said, touching his bottom lip in surprise, "this? I walked into a pole, the stupidest thing, during a raid last week. So terribly embarrassing." And his questioners would cluck and dole out words of sympathy or give him a hard look, depending on who they happened to be. Most did not believe him. And indeed, why should they?

Lies, lies. It was always easier to lie. 

Time dragged on, endless and drear, and the near-hysterical shine on everything that threatened to break at any moment. It was almost a relief, then, when a knock came at his door. "No, Toto," Bunny said, stomping towards the door. "I haven't changed my mind, and you haven’t left any of your things here."

"Open the door, Bunny. I don’t want to talk out here." It was Ralph, standing, though not as straight as he usually did. _Yes, yes, I knew it,_ Bunny thought, repressing a jolt of excitement. His hands trembling a little, as he undid the locks. _I knew he would come back._

Ralph was a wreck, a different person in the same skin. His clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them, and there was a day’s worth of stubble on his face, and black marks on under his eyes. He brushed past Bunny on his way to the cocktail cabinet, opening it roughly (there was a brief tinkling of glass, a shudder of wood) and fixed his drink in ominous silence. 

Bunny followed behind him, wondering what he ought to say. But then a story popped into his head, something he had heard from Toto, and as he told it, he was aware that he was ruining it, this last chance.

Ralph, not listening, turned to him suddenly and beckoned him closer, a quick curling of his fingers. Bunny took two steps towards him and caught their reflections on the mirror of the cocktail cabinet, their faces distorted and bright. Ralph caught his chin and tilted his head slightly, examined him with an expression Bunny didn’t recognize.

Bunny bit at his lip, again. It was getting to be a habit.

Ralph let him go, eventually.

“Boo, how did you get that split lip?” Ralph said in a light, friendly sort of voice, as if inquiring about the weather. Bunny shook himself awake and in a rush, he told the same old story he’d been using the whole week. Ralph listened to it patiently, and said, “Now, the true story.”

“Oh, but it _is_ true — ” Here, Bunny’s voice fell flat, lost its sparkle, became prosaic. He was drained of energy, unable to keep it up. “Fine. You know how.”

Ralph was unrelenting, grim. “I want to hear you say it.”

Bunny snapped, “Why?”

Ralph stood still, his empty glass still in his hand. He waited for Bunny to tell him, and he did, everything that he could think to say about it. He didn’t spare the details, naturally, though he wandered away from Ralph, keeping an eye on him the whole time, waiting for him to burst. Ralph followed along, almost distracted, reliving some scene that Bunny himself had no knowledge of.

(Oh, how he wished he knew all about it!) 

He stopped again and let Ralph run into him, a collision of arms and elbows. Bunny wrapped his arms around Ralph’s neck, ran his fingers through his fine, fair hair. (Which was, to be truthful, a little greasy now.) Bunny leaned in, his mouth grazing Ralph’s neck, his ear. Ralph was still, stubbornly unresponsive. Bunny said, quite kindly, “Darling, _my_ darling, why torture yourself about it? Let those two go off and have their boring Victorian love affair. Somewhere else.” 

Bunny was pushed against the wall, and there were wails of sirens outside, the walls itself began to rattle and shake, hum with energy. Something crashed, close by. They did not pay attention, neither of them thought to flee. 

“And what would we do?” Ralph’s mouth curled up into a smile that promised nothing good. 

“What you want to do,” said Bunny, panting a little, already aching. “As always.” 

****

* * * 

He was only out for a few moments.

There was a crack in the wall that hadn’t been there before, and the carpets were strewn with broken glass. The cocktail cabinet had overturned, splintered and cracked open, looking like a victim of some pitiless thief. Liquor, like water, like blood, dripped down to the ground. 

Somewhere below, a neighbor’s dog was barking bloody murder, over the shouts of the warden. There was something warm and wet at the back of his head, and when he pulled a hand through his hair, it came away bloody. A heavy frame lay broken in front of him, there bits of plaster was everywhere. In his hair, in his mouth. 

It hurt to breath, he felt too dizzy to stand. Ralph’s face swam briefly into his vision, and cleared. Ralph had cleaned himself, and looked as well-put together as he always did. 

He said, “What happened here?” It was not a question. 

Bunny blinked in the dark, his vision swam. “An accident? I — ”

Ralph spoke slowly, every word making quiet reverberations in Bunny’s head. “I’ll drive you to the station, they can check you out there.” 

Bunny bared his teeth when he hissed, “ _Such_ a gentleman.” 

****

* * * 

Bunny woke with his head in a snarling mess, the light too-bright for his aching eyes. _I want_ , he thought, _to stop existing for a while. A minute. An hour. A week, at most. It’s too much, otherwise._

He slept a little more, his dreams were black and formless. 

****

* * * 

But still, he had to pick himself up. For was he not one of the lions, the kind that picked his teeth with the bones of good Christian boys? Oh yes, yes, he was, terrible and ruinous, tremble before him! Had not his revenge been total and devastating? Hadn’t it been worth the price? Yes, yes, yes. Surely.

Oh, how his head _ached._

He was released from the sick-bay with something for his aching head and instructions not to breathe too hard or move too quickly. He went home and swept up the broken glass. He grew careless after a while, and a jagged-edged shard sliced his right palm, a streak of eager, hungry red. 

He cursed viciously, a sailor’s curses (though he had never been one), and got up to get some bandages. But before he could, the doorbell rang. With a sickening sense of déjà vu, he went to it. But it was not Ralph at the door, but Alec, neatly dressed in grey. Bunny opened the door and let him in. 

Alec looked around dispassionately, and at Bunny with a doctor’s eye for injuries. He gestured at Bunny’s hand, which was still bleeding. They did not speak as Alec patched him up. Bunny’s other hand traced circles in the dust of the pink glass-topped coffee table, one of the few pieces that had made it through the the air raid and Ralph wholly unscathed. 

“I suppose you’ve come here to gloat,” Bunny said, finally. Alec lifted his heavy eyes, as if surprised that Bunny could still speak. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a very long time. 

He said, “ How are you feeling, Bunny?” 

Bunny groaned, and rubbed his face in with his free hand. “I feel _wonderful_. The last few days have changed my perspective on everything.” 

Alec said quietly, “I suppose it is too much to expect you to learn from your mistakes?” 

“Which one? They all lead to another. And blurred together, in the end.” Restlessly, Bunny got up and began to pace around the room. 

Alec stayed where he was, resting his head awkwardly on the cushioned back of one of the rose-colored tub-chairs, his eyes closed. “Was anyone else hurt during the raid? Sandy said he could hear it from our flat... And _honestly_ , why did you pick these chairs? They’re monstrous.” 

Bunny shrugged. “How should I know?” And then he paused and said, reluctantly, “They seemed a good idea at the time.” 

“God, they really weren’t,” said Alec, fervently, trying to find a more comfortable position but failing. With a sigh, Bunny helped him up and led him to a low-slung sofa, lavender-striped and of tiny dimensions. Alec sat down and seemed to take up all of it, but still, Bunny sat next to him, their limbs bumping into each other. 

“You’re here,” Bunny said, “to make sure I don’t make any more trouble. For them. Whereas I — ” he pressed a delicate hand against his breast. “I don’t care what happens to them. At all. I hope they’re very happy together. Or unhappy. Anyway, it doesn’t matter to me. Not in the slightest.” 

Even now, his words fell flat. But that was fair. He _felt_ flat.

Alec shrugged and spread his thin fingers out wide. “May I have some tea?” 

Not an elaborate production, this time. He got the kettle boiling with some difficulty (Alec lit the match), and they huddled together in front of the hob, waiting for the water to boil, Alec patiently, Bunny, not so very, his good hand tapping against the counter. He didn’t know where his teaset had gone off to (stolen, perhaps, from the days his flat had been left unlocked; there were other things missing), and so they had tea with a white teapot and a rose-patterned teacup and a grey mug. 

The milk had gone off long before, and the sugar ration had simply gone. All in all, it tasted of nothing but heated water and a faint suggestion of dust, as well as tea. It was vile, in fact, but they drank it, and there were no complaints. 

It should be a grey day today, raining and dull, Bunny thought, but a glance out the window soon proved him wrong. The sun shone bravely down, illuminating the brick wall that jutted into view, and played across the rooftops of Bridstow. Perverse weather, for England, in November and in war-time. 

_Tick-tock-tick_ , went the clock, time went on on its usual clip, ever onward, never back. Alec sipped at his tea. Bunny stared out the window. Finally, he said, “I suppose you think I didn’t deserve Ralph to begin with.” 

Alec took another sip of his tea. “I thought the two of you needed different things. Vastly different things.” 

Bunny kicked aside a toppled ornament near his feet, started picking at his bandage. Alec swatted at him. 

He said hurriedly, “It’s just that. Well, I’ve always had trouble, caring about other people. It never seemed worth it, in the long run.” And then -- awfully, unexpectedly -- he felt a prickling in his eyes. He shook his head fiercely. 

Not in front of Alec. Damn him, why had he come? 

Bunny looked down at his mug, at the cooling dregs of tea swirling at the bottom of it. Quietly and fiercely, so Alec wouldn’t quite hear, he said, “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I make them stay? I am good enough, I know I am. I must be, I have to be. Why can’t I _make_ them stay?” 

Alec set down his teacup and patted Bunny’s shoulder. _There, there_ , he didn’t say, and for that, Bunny was grateful. He almost smiled. He said in a subdued voice, “I must be in a bad way, you’re not usually this kind.” 

Alec paused and considered. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be. I’ve spent the last week putting out all fires you set. Exhausting business.”

Then he seemed to remember that he wasn’t to stay. He tucked his coat under his arm and picked up his hat. “Though I suppose I should thank you, really. It was because of your terrible gossip that I had to fix things with Sandy.” 

“Oh. Still alive, is he?” said Bunny gloomily, following him to the hall. 

Alec turned to give him one last disapproving look, and Bunny, suddenly contrite, said, “If I said that I am sorry about that, would you believe me?” 

Alec stood very still, and said, “I don’t know that I would believe you, but I think that would be a nice thing for you to do, Bunny.” 

“Then I am sorry, about you and Sandy. I hope you will both be happy.” 

“Thank you,” said Alec, “and goodbye. Get well soon.” He left, and Bunny closed the door behind him with a thump, and locked it. 

Then he drifted back to the window. The sun had retreated back behind the clouds, and the wind had picked up, bringing with it a promise of rain. Another gust came up, one that smelled of the sea. 

Bunny closed the window, latched it firmly shut. 

He began to sweep up the glass again. He switched on the radio, and turned up the dial. “And now,” the announcer said, by special request...” The music swelled and took up in all of the nooks and crannies of the room. 

The singer crooned, “Someday, my prince will come...”

Bunny hummed along, smiling a little, as he worked.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, Walt Disney was a philosopher-king, was he not? 
> 
> Anyway! Some further notes. The title comes from Duke Ellington’s 1940 jazz piece, titled, you guessed it, Cotton Tail. I thought it was too perfect not to use. 
> 
> There's not a lot of Bunny fic around, but this particular effort definitely owes something to bee_muse's [Mad Boy's Love Song](http://maryrenaultfics.livejournal.com/419356.html) [note: locked comm entry] -- for giving me valuable insight into Bunny's particular head-space. And also Laura Mason's [If Pricks Could Talk](http://lauramason.slashcity.net/boo.html) for, ah, shedding new light on how Ralph and Bunny's last encounter may have run. 
> 
> Moving on to furniture -- I imagine Bunny’s lounge chairs would resemble these things: [link](http://i50.tinypic.com/nbx0ts.jpg) [Image description: an Art Déco Giltwood tub chair by Paul Follot.] But perhaps a little more down-market than that? Essentially, pretty to look at, hard get out of. Just like Bunny himself.
> 
> Bunny’s beloved cocktail cabinet, in my mind, resembles this: [link](http://i46.tinypic.com/ic1h5z.jpg). [Image description: an Art Déco drinks cabinet, with a burl walnut veneer, hinges opened, showing a mirrored display and glass shelves. It is gorgeous.]
> 
> All this, with a dash of gin. Chin chin!


End file.
